


As Long As You're Alive And Care

by tinybabydeer



Category: One Direction (Band), The Voice (Ireland) RPF
Genre: Haircuts, M/M, Shaving Kink kind of, Solo Artist Zayn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinybabydeer/pseuds/tinybabydeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like with the tattoo, he would gently move Zayn to where he needed him, and Zayn was more than happy to relinquish control. It wasn’t like when his stylists or his team pushed him and pulled him into place. Zayn <i>wanted</i> Bressie to get him where he needed him to be. He felt looked after, and cared for, and it was intensely, deeply comforting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Long As You're Alive And Care

**Author's Note:**

> Zayn is a disenchanted pop star, and Bressie is a tattoo artist-slash-old school barber on Venice Beach.
> 
> Inspired by [this picture](https://36.media.tumblr.com/10543bfd6e51423afab812073e844445/tumblr_mx39q8Soyh1rxurfso1_1280.jpg) that is ruining my whole life.
> 
> I don't know any better than you do, to be honest. Bury me in Brezzayn.
> 
> Title is from The Taste of Ink by The Used.

It was called The Jenny Haniver. 

The entrance from off the street led to a well lit lobby, thick with vintage decor, taxidermy and faded pennants, frames filled with dried flowers and perfectly preserved butterflies next to etchings of pirate ships. It was the kind of eclectic, organized chaos only a tattoo parlour could manage. 

What made it interesting, though, was through the open doorway to the left. An impeccably kept vintage style barber shop, brightly illuminated from the massive windows along the front, ran adjacent to the parlour. The two ran in perfect harmony with one another, somehow. It wasn’t kitsch or a gimmick, the men and women working there were the best in the business. 

Or at least, so Zayn had been told.

He was in Venice Beach, California, on a rare break between shows. His tour had been doing well, fine actually. He continued to sell out shows, much to the insulting surprise of his label. They made no bones about telling Zayn they didn’t agree with his image. He was too tattooed, too “bad boy” for a pop singer, and too “prettyboy” for a proper R&B one. The way he saw it, his music toed that line pretty evenly, there was no reason for him to change the way he looked for one or the other. But saying as much was met with exasperated, tired sighs, like _we know better_ , and _if only you’d listen_. So Zayn stopped talking back, but also stopped listening entirely. 

Fuck it, and fuck them, he thought to himself as he entered the parlour. A bell chimed pleasantly over his head, and he could already hear the whining buzz of tattoo guns from the back. He couldn’t help the delighted thrill over his skin at the droning noise. There were few greater joys than getting tattooed. He wondered just how much real estate he had left on his skin. 

He wandered up to the hardwood counter, glass topped and displaying various jewelry and paraphernalia. A petite girl, curvaceaous and dark, smiled brightly at him from around a laptop screen, where she was apparently queuing up a new playlist. An upbeat rock song he didn’t recognize piped over the speakers, and he caught her eye, seeing it narrow slightly at him before relaxing again in that very practiced, Californian ‘I know who you are but I’m not going to mention it’ way. Zayn was actually pretty good at getting around unnoticed, he didn’t even bring a bodyguard when he went out. He got too claustrophobic being followed all the time, he felt better when he could just make his way around on his own. Of course, there was only so unrecognizable you could be when you were face to face with someone.

“Hi there,” she drawled, smile dimpling. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Zayn said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his light hoodie. “I was wondering if you had time for a walk-in tattoo, I didn’t, uh, make an appointment.” He probably should have, he didn’t like pulling the celebrity card, but he had been feeling impulsive.

“I’m sure we do, let me just check the schedule,” she hummed, pursing her lips and tapping away at the keyboard. Eyes darting over the screen, she made a victorious little noise and double-clicked on something.

“You’re in luck, Bressie’s in today. Is it something big you wanted, or-?”

Zayn rubbed absentmindedly and his inner arm, already tingling with anticipation. “Nah, just like, black and white, ‘bout three inches square?”

“Perfect, lemme just get you the forms and you can get all set up, okay?” She reached under the counter and pulled out a clipboard with a few printouts held in its clamp. Double-checking the papers and circling a few spots, she handed it over to Zayn with another blinding smile. “Just your info and sign the circled parts, alright? You can make yourself comfortable over there.”

Zayn nodded and smiled back, taking the board. The waiting area was a couple of unassuming leather chairs, worn and cracked with age. Zayn was thankful his spontaneous tattoo outing fell early on a Sunday, there was practically no one else in the place. He had a good view into the barber shop from where he sat, the slick oldschool red and chrome seats gleaming in the sunlight. He couldn’t see anyone, but heard the low rumble of voices from somewhere within. It was peaceful. Zayn felt a sleepy tug in the back of his brain, he could easily doze off here in the sun if he wasn’t careful. He blinked and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, trying to shake off the feeling.

He filled out the paperwork, the standard “name, age, medical history, are you drunk because we won’t tattoo you if you’re drunk” questionnaire. Just as he was signing the last form, a tower of a man appeared in the frame of the barber shop doorway, nearly filling it. Zayn blinked at him, but he wasn’t looking his way. 

Drying his hands on a clean white towel, the man chucked it at the back of the front desk clerk’s head, where flopped and fell over her face. She shrieked and yanked it off, whipping it around to heave it back at the man with shocking, clearly practiced accuracy. He was laughing as she rounded on him, cowering despite being easily a foot taller.

“It’s _wet_ , Bressie, you gross asshole, I just got my braids done, if you don’t _get_ -”

He held his hands up in surrender, still helplessly laughing but apologizing all the while. “Sorry, sorry, Jas, alright, I give up, I won’t do it again-”

Zayn sat up a bit. Bressie wasn’t American, his accent was thickly Irish. It was oddly comforting to hear something that wasn’t the usual California drawl.

Jas huffed, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “You have an appointment, you unprofessional dickhead. Honestly…”

“You aren’t allowed to say that, I’m your boss,” Bressie said halfheartedly, before finally looking over at Zayn where he sat. His eyes widened, and Zayn felt that nervous drop in his stomach he always got when he saw someone suddenly recognize him. It made him want to run and hide. Some pop star he was.

“Zayn Malik?” Bressie said cheerfully, crossing the lobby in three short strides, hand already extended in hello. Zayn could hear Jas mutter “subtle” underneath her breath, and he offered his hand politely only to have it completely engulfed in Bressie’s massive tattooed paw. “Bradford, right? I’ve got a couple mates up there. You’re a legend there nowadays, huh?”

Zayn couldn’t help huffing a laugh, running his hand through his hair. “Or summat, right? Nice to meet you, mate. This your place?”

Bressie beamed proudly, unabashed, a schoolboy’s smile on an inked pillar of a man. “It is. What can I do for you today, Mr. Malik?”

Zayn shed his hoodie to map out his idea to Bressie, who listened intently, gently reaching out to trace the rough outline onto the spot Zayn had chosen, the skin above the crook of his elbow. Zayn ignored the heat of his skin and swallowed, but Bressie didn’t seem to notice, focused on the task at hand.

“Yeah, that sounds great. I’m going to go sketch it up and I’ll bring it back and see how you like it, alright?” Bressie said, clapping and rubbing his hands together.

“Of course,” Zayn said as Bressie smiled and got to his feet. Zayn had almost forgotten how tall he was. Almost.

Bressie disappeared to the back room and was gone for nearly twenty minutes, during which Zayn checked twitter, ignored his emails, and played a truly pitiful game of Candy Crush. He was about to actually doze off when Bressie turned up again, looking excited and wielding a sheet of paper.

Zayn reached out for it as Bressie passed it over and stared at it. Bressie waited patiently, smile curling up the corner of his mouth. Zayn was speechless.

“Yeah this is- this is perfect,” he finally said, breaking into his own grin. The design, an eye gazing upward, was going to be connected to the Pink Floyd ink on his inner bicep. He was worried initially that the design wouldn’t work, but Bressie’s piece was perfect. It was like he’d taken the rambling explanation and notebook paper sketch of Zayn’s idea and somehow made something beautiful out of it. It was beautiful. 

“Great,” Bressie said, eyes shining, “Let’s get to work then.”

\---

Zayn was lying flat on his back in the leather dentist’s chair, staring at the cream-colored tile of the ceiling. The initial shock of the needle had already worn off, but the adrenaline from the pain still swirled in his mind, making him feel alert, focused. There was a high that came from getting inked, which was probably part of the reason it was so addictive. 

Bressie’s hands, clad in black vinyl gloves, were steady and sure. He manipulated Zayn’s arm with care, moving it to where he needed it to be with the practiced ease of someone who had been doing this for a very long time. 

“So who’s Jenny?” Zayn found himself asking, not turning his head.

Bressie paused where he was by the counter refilling the ink in the gun. “Eh?”

Zayn blinked and turned. “Haniver? The name of the shop. Issat your girlfriend or something?”

Bressie laughed, not unkindly. It made his eyes go crinkly in the corners. Zayn smiled back at him without realizing he had.

“Oh, no, no. A jenny haniver is like, a ray that’d get washed up on the beach. People used to collect them and cut ‘em up a bit and dry them out and try to sell them to unsuspecting folks as taxidermied mermaids.” Bressie looked back at Zayn as he scooted over in his chair to continue working, and chuckled again at the horrified look on Zayn’s face. “Yeah, I know. I like the idea though, taking something and turning it into something magical for someone.”

“Even if it’s a trick that you’re selling to some poor, unsuspecting innocent person?” Zayn ribbed, smirking down at him.

“ _Especially_ if it’s a trick. Man’s gotta eat.”

Zayn laughed quietly and settled back, staring at the ceiling. “So there’s no girl named Jenny Haniver waiting for you at home to finish up tattooing pop stars, huh?”

He could feel Bressie pause a bit.

“No, there’s no girl.” Bressie murmured, a smile in his voice.

“Cool.”

They chatted aimlessly, about back home, about America (mainly the differences between pancakes). Zayn eventually glanced over to what he could see of the lobby, some freshly shaved patrons exiting the barber shop.

“Why haircuts?” He asked suddenly, turning back to Bressie. He noted with not a little disappointment that the tattoo was almost finished. Bressie looked up, raising his eyebrows. “I mean, like, with a tattoo parlour. It doesn’t seem like it would make sense.”

Bressie shrugged, rolling some tension out of his shoulder from where he was sitting hunched over Zayn’s arm. “I was trained to be a barber. I mean, I started out in rugby, it didn’t work out, tried music, it didn’t work out, but I knew a guy who taught blokes how to cut hair, so I figured I’d try it, as a temporary thing, until I could get a real job.”

Zayn didn’t flinch as the needle sank back into his arm. “And?”

Bressie grinned, not looking up. “It became my real job.”

“I mean, it’s not just like, your standard clippers job, yeah?” Bressie continued, “There’s an art to it, the way people used to do it back in the old days. It’s one of those things that if you don’t keep doing it, people will forget how. And I was good at it, really good. It was the first job I had that didn’t break my knees or give me anxiety attacks on a stage in front of a bar full of people, y’know? It felt right.”

Zayn felt something strange and warm fluttering in his chest. He felt like blushing. “And the tattoos?”

Bressie shrugged. “I’ve always been doing ‘em. When my friend was selling this place, it seemed like an opportunity to make an honest living. Speaking of,” he sat up, cracking his neck and smiling warmly down at Zayn, “you’re all set.”

Zayn looked down at his arm, red and swollen to hell, but it looked… perfect. Zayn had amassed enough tattoos to be able to tell a good one from a bad, and this one definitely ranked among his best. Bressie had lived up to the hype after all.

A sinking sort of regret sat like lead in his stomach unexpectedly. This was it though, he realised, glancing up at Bressie’s broad back where he was cleaning up the counter, snapping the gloves off his hands and chucking them into the bin. He had to leave tomorrow, heading to Australia for the next leg of his tour. He didn’t want to leave.

“Can you cut my hair?”

Bressie stilled, then straightened and glanced at Zayn quizzically over his shoulder. “What’s that then?”

Zayn sat up with a little difficulty, the headrush after lying down for over an hour making his vision go dark for a moment. “I, uh, I need a cut. And since I’m in town, like. I wanna see how good you really are.”

Bressie ducked his head like he was bashful, but his smile was real. He turned fully, crossing his darkly inked arms. “Is that a challenge? And besides, isn’t that something that a stylist or someone does, not some lanky Irish bloke on Venice Beach?”

Zayn’s eyes went a bit dark, and he set his jaw. “I don’t give a fuck. It’s not their decision. If you don’t want to-”

Bressie’s hands went up, somewhere between surrender and consolation. “I do, I do, I promise. I just don’t want someone from your label sending an assassin or summat for messing up your gorgeous hair.”

Zayn deflated instantly, willing his cheeks not to go pink at the second part of that statement. “They won’t, I promise.”

Bressie glanced toward the front where the tinkling of the door bell and the chatter of young women could be heard over the music. He seemed to be considering something then looked back at Zayn.

“Could you come back tonight, after we close down? It’ll be less crowded, less likely to, uh, cause a fuss.”

Zayn grinned, swinging his legs over the side of the chair and standing, wobbling a bit on unsteady legs. “Could do.”

Bressie gently applied ointment to the angry skin and bandaged the fresh ink. Zayn tried not to flush or be too obviously staring at the tattoos on his knuckles as he did so. They spelled out “HAND MADE”, complimenting the straight razor on his right thumb and the pair of scissors on his left. He wanted to ask about the tattoos, about his old jobs, he wanted to know more about him. It didn’t hurt that he was six-and-a-half feet tall and fit as fuck. Zayn was only human.

As he finished they both stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to say suddenly. “Um, should I go pay?” Zayn said, kicking himself for being such a knob.

“No, it’s alright, I’ll take care of it after the cut. Just come over around 10, everyone should be out by then,” Bressie said, giving a meaningful look to Jas at the front, to her confusion. They continued to have a silent argument until she finally rolled her eyes and drew the crowd of girls at the front over to an out of the way case of jewelry, giving Zayn an escape route. “You’re good to go,” Bressie smiled a bit at Zayn, thumbing toward the door. 

“Thanks mate. See you tonight, I guess?” Zayn said, feeling far too hopeful and excited about a haircut.

“Definitely.”

And with that, Zayn ducked out, pulling his hood up before any of the girls could see him.

\---

He killed time by calling his manager and usual bodyguard to assure them he wasn’t dead before getting his skateboard out of the rental car he had been taking around town and went to go skate down by the boardwalk. There were enough people milling around to not draw attention to himself, and with his sunglasses he looked enough like a regular lad that he only got a couple of second glances. 

He got dinner, texted his mate Louis to bother him before his Rovers game to wish him luck and take the piss, and before he knew it, it was nearly ten. Stubbing out his cigarette, he rode back over to where he had parked, feeling inexplicably giddy. His arm ached, reminding him of the way Bressie’s hands felt on him. He might be interested in him, a bit. 

When he arrived at Jenny Haniver, the shades were pulled down, the “closed” sign hanging in the door. The lights were on inside, however, and when Zayn knocked, it was only a couple moments before the door opened and Bressie filled his view, grinning like he was as excited to see Zayn as Zayn was Bressie.

“Howiya, c’mon in before we get in trouble.”

Zayn snorted, stepping inside and following Bressie to the left, into the barber shop. The blinds had been pulled over the windows, effectively blocking them from any prying eyes on the street. “What trouble, you’re the boss ain’t ya?”

“Fair point. Have a seat mate.” Bressie gestured grandly to the seat like it was a horse-drawn carriage, not a barber chair. Zayn rolled his eyes and sat, wiggling a bit to get comfortable on the slick leather.

Bressie’s presence disappeared for a second before suddenly, a billow of black fabric filled his vision. The cape settled silkily around him as Bressie’s hands tied it gently around his neck.

“Too tight?” Bressie murmured. Zayn swallowed, feeling a bit like he was choking, but the cape had nothing to do with it. Maybe this was a mistake. 

“Nah, it’s fine.” Zayn managed, sounding slightly strangled, which probably didn’t help his case. He could see himself in the mirror in front of them, and he looked about as flustered as he felt. So much for being cool. Bressie let it be, however, and picked up a pair of shears before making eye contact with Zayn in their reflection. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So what can I getcha, Mr. Malik?”

Zayn was afraid for a moment that he was going to answer a little too honestly. “Can you shave the back and sides? I’m heading to Australia tomorrow and I don’t want to keel over from the heat.” He said it as lightly as he could, but he wasn’t sure if he imagined the flash of disappointment snapped through the air between them. Anywhere but right here was sounding like a downgrade.

“Leave the top long then?” Bressie said, equally as lightly, gently putting his fingertips on Zayn’s crown to tip his head, surveying what he was about to work with. Zayn couldn’t help the way the air in his lungs _whoosh_ ed out with the touch.

“Yeah.” He said belatedly, trying to keep it together.

Bressie went to work, trimming the long, inky locks to a reasonable length with expert ease. Like with the tattoo, he would gently move Zayn to where he needed him, and Zayn was more than happy to relinquish control. It wasn’t like when his stylists or his team pushed him and pulled him into place. Zayn _wanted_ Bressie to get him where he needed him to be. He felt looked after and cared for, and it was intensely, deeply comforting.

“I like the bird,” Bressie said quietly, breaking the silence and startling Zayn out of his line of thought. “On your neck. You’ve got some sick tattoos, mate.”

Zayn smiled, head tilted downward as Bressie took a buzzer to the nape of his neck. The vibrations tickled and Zayn had to resist the urge to squirm. “Thanks. Almost have as many as you, I reckon.”

Bressie chuckled, agreeing. “I’ve lost count, to be honest. A mother’s nightmare.”

Zayn sincerely doubted Bressie could disappoint anyone’s mother. “What’s the ones on your hands mean? ‘Hand made?”

Bressie tilted Zayn’s head back up, brushing the shorn hair off the back of his neck to apply some sort of cream. “I got those when I took over the shop, to christen it. I felt like, this was the first time I really felt like I had succeeded in something. I built it with my own two hands, metaphorically of course.” Bressie placed a warm, steaming towel to the back of Zayn’s nack and Zayn nearly rolled his eyes with pleasure, struggling to listen to Bressie’s story. “Reminds me that I’m the one who has the power to change things for the better.”

“But things are better, right? Jenny Haniver seems like it’s brilliant.” Zayn said earnestly.

“It is. It’s really brilliant. And that’s not me wanking about my own excellent ownership or anything, they run a tight ship here. I hardly even need to be here for them.” A soft edge of bittersweetness was creeping into Bressie’s voice. “It’s hard to let your baby out of the nest, y’know. So I stick around. Maybe something will come up eventually and I’ll leave ‘em all be finally, but until then, I’m around.”

Bressie pulls the cooled towel from Zayn’s neck, setting it aside. Zayn can see Bressie shrug, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m prattling on-”

“No, no! I don’t mind!” Zayn insisted, sitting up straighter and meeting his eyes earnestly. “I asked you, didn’t I? I like hearing about it.”

Bressie grinned at him. “Well, if I haven’t put you to sleep yet, I guess I’m doing alright.” For a brief moment, Zayn was afraid he’d actually dozed off for a second and Bressie was taking the mick, but it didn’t seem that way. It would be his luck to fall asleep while a fit bloke had his hands all over his head.

Another balm of some sort was applied to the shaved sides of Zayn’s head, the firm pads of Bressie’s fingers dragging through the prickly stubble. Forget tattoos, he could get addicted to _this_.

The straight razor appeared out of nowhere, and Bressie caught Zayn’s wary glance in the mirror. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to cut you with it. I have a clean track record, no injuries on the job yet.”

“So you’re due for one,” Zayn said, mostly kidding but still cautious. Bressie laughed anyway, and carefully directed his head downward. 

The first glide of the razor sent a shiver down Zayn’s spine, one he wasn’t prepared for. Bressie must have felt it, because he murmured a quiet “alright?” before the second pass. Zayn almost nodded before he remembered how close the razor was to his head, and instead muttered an assurance.

The second pass felt just as confusingly sensual, but he was able to bite down on his tongue before he reacted to it. The feeling of the blade’s edge gliding against his scalp, wickedly sharp and without resistance, set his nerves on fire. There was a kind of hypnotic quality to it, and Zayn could feel his eyes slipping closed, letting the sensations roll through him. Bressie’s hands felt huge on his head, moving to the back of his neck, working the razor along his scalp with practically surgical care. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. He’d never had a haircut like this. 

After what could have been minutes or hours, as far as Zayn could tell, Bressie set the razor aside. His hands disappeared for a moment before returning to rub an aftershave over the now skin-smooth sides of his head. Zayn barely contained the groan in his throat before realizing with a shock that he was half hard under the black silk barber cape.

He couldn’t decide if he was mortified or too turned on to care at this point. As Bressie finished brushing off the back of his neck and unpinned the still-long locks of hair from the crown of Zayn’s head, Zayn still hadn’t figured it out.

The hair fell over his eyes, and he instinctively flicked his head to get it out of the way. Catching his gaze in the mirror, he inwardly groaned. He looked fucked. Far too fucked for someone who’d just had a very innocent haircut. 

Bressie undid the cape from his neck, and as Zayn felt the dig of his thumbs along the knobs of his spine, he decided he was the latter category: too turned on to care.

Folding the cape and setting it to the side, Bressie came around to look at him straight on. Zayn stared back levelly with hooded eyes, knowing he must look mad, flushed and wrecked as he did. Luckily, his shirt was long enough that Bressie probably couldn’t see the blatant wood he was sporting.

The silence stretched on, and Zayn swallowed heavily, before finally asking “how do I look?”, quiet and hoarse and self-conscious. Bressie stepped forward, having to bend down to take Zayn’s face in his hands. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, before finally, _finally_ , kissing him.

His lips were dry and warm, soft against Zayn’s in dramatic contrast to their combined stubble rasping against each other’s. Zayn’s hand came up almost immediately, wrapping around Bressie’s neck and pulling him closer to deepen the kiss as best they could at this angle.

Zayn’s eyelashes fluttered and he moaned softly as Bressie’s fingers dug into the soft spot where his ears met his jawline. It was the firmest pressure he’d used on him all day, and still so desperately, infuriatingly not enough.

Suddenly, there was a tinny, warbling sound that startled both of them apart. Zayn’s phone rang insistently from his pocket, vibrating. By the ringtone, Zayn knew it was his manager and he practically growled at it.

Bressie pulled back, standing upright again and Zayn wanted to cry about it. “You can get it, it’s okay, I’m sure it’s important,” Bressie said genuinely, but a glance downward told Zayn it was as hard for him as it was Zayn to separate.

Zayn made an apologetic face at him and finally thumbed the ‘accept call’ button, a second before it went to voicemail. “Yeah, Vince, what’s up,” Zayn said, not disguising his displeasure.

“Zayn, I know you’re off finding yourself on the beach somewhere, but you’ve got a flight in five hours and you should probably at least pretend to sleep or pack for it,” Vince said in a tense rush. Zayn could hear a pen tapping against a desk and rolled his eyes. “I’m not above sending a bodyguard to drag you back, I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.”

“I know you have, Vince, I was there.” Zayn muttered, saying a prayer for his now-dead boner, on its way to boner heaven. “I’ll-... I’ll come back, alright? I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Not an hour, Zayn, now. Seriously, you can’t just-”

“Fine! Fine, now. Bye.” Zayn snapped, before hanging up the phone and rubbing a knuckle against his eye. He glanced back up at Bressie, who looked bemused.

“You getting grounded or what? Am I gonna get that assassin after all?” Bressie asked, raising a brow.

Zayn snorted. “No such luck. I’m just being summoned, I guess.” He heaved himself up from the chair, glancing up at Bressie. He really was a half foot taller than him, at least. They stood an unsure distance apart, swaying a bit like they both wanted to step forward but didn’t know if they could.

After a couple of awkward half-sentences, Bressie walked with Zayn to the lobby. Zayn fished his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out whatever cash he had in it, handing it to Bressie.

“For the tattoo and the cut,” he said and Bressie stared at the money in his hand.

Bressie looked up, brow furrowed. “This is way too much, Zayn, you don’t have to-”

Zayn cut him off. “It’s a tip then. I don’t need American money in Australia anyway, right? Give Jas a raise, she’s earned it working with you.” He smirked a bit at Bressie, who thankfully gave a small smile back.

“Oh sure, take her side.”

“Will do.”

SIlence fell over them again, but less tense than before. Zayn wished he didn’t have to leave, or if he did, it was to go back to Bressie’s to see just what those hands could do. He flushed a bit at the thought, and tried to pull it together.

“I’ll see you around, Bressie,” he said, giving a half smile up at him. Bressie dipped his head, resigned. 

“You’d better, Mr. Malik.”

Zayn kissed him again, nearly having to go up on his toes, and left, disappearing into the twilight.

\---

Three days later, Bressie received an email with a job offer.

It required a lot of travel and a hectic schedule, but the pay was good. Company wasn’t half bad either.

If he was interested, all he’d have to do is give Jas and the folks at the shop promotions all around to make sure they’d pick up the slack, pack his tools and whatever he’d need for the next three weeks, and accept the flight tickets to Melbourne that were made in his name.

It wouldn’t be particularly glamorous to be the personal hairstylist of a pop star, but if he didn’t mind, there was a position open.

Several positions, actually, but they could get into that later.

The email was signed,

“Mr. Malik”

\---

By Friday, Bressie had landed in Melbourne, and shortly thereafter, in Zayn’s arms.


End file.
